Haddock
by kingofthewilderwest
Summary: Haddock, rejected son of a king, struggles through the consequences of his brash and violent past. In a world of Vikings fighting dragons, spirits possessing innocent people, and once-close friends betraying one another, Haddock tries to find direction and passion in his chaotic life. Occurs in the Battle of the Grounded Dungeon RP universe. King Haddock's backstory.
1. Chapter 1: Looking Forward, Looking Back

**NOTE: This fiction takes place in the HTTYD-esque "Battle of the Grounded Dungeon" roleplay universe, for which information can be found at the Tumblr blog battleofthegroundeddungeon under "Chronicles."**

**This is the backstory of King Haddock of the Wilderwest.**

* * *

He always thought that on those days he felt depressed, the weather was supposed to be gloomy, too.

That stormy skies would reflect a stormy soul.

That both raindrops from the clouds and tears on his face would fall as one.

Hel, even a little gust of Odin-damned _wind_ to disturb the leaves on trees' branches could have served to mirror the restlessness currently overtaking his heart.

Yet the weather, if anything, juxtaposed his emotions rather than reflected them. For sunlight cheerily danced on bright aspen leaves, intensifying the burning reds on crap apple trees and verdant greens of grass-cloaked meadows. Carefree clouds scudded smoothly over intense blue skies. Even hares, usually intimidated by a human's approaching footsteps, rested unperturbed in plain view.

It was almost ridiculous, in a sense, how tackily _perfect_ the outdoors seemed. Could something so idealistically idyllic actually exist? It was pure mockery, an absolute travesty – and would have been so on any afternoon, even one less doleful than was today.

_Even the stupid weather can't sympathize with me, _he thought as he stomped past a cluster of blooming primroses.

But he should have known he would be alone again. All the signs had been there, that this isolation was coming.

Even then, with this longstanding knowledge, it never ceased to baffle him what had occurred over the last few months. The son of a _king,_ thrown aside. Outright outcasted. Unable to return home for three years, else he would be killed on sight.

In a burst of anger he rushed up to punch a perfectly-rounded tree straight in its trunk and then staggered backward as pain shot up his arm.

"Bloody half-Jotun bastard," he cursed under his breath. At the tree, not himself. No, not at himself at all. No reason to curse himself. None. . .

The young man trekked onward through the landscape. The steep incline of tumbling hills and miniature mountains sometimes forced him to paused and puff for breath, yet he never completely halted his journey. No, he wanted to leave his past behind him as quickly as possible. Head to a new world. Someplace better.

Wherever _that_ so happened to be.

It preferably would be the location to a place he had never before read on a map, a name he did not recognize, one that did not even tickle in the back of his mind as _somewhere_ he should have known. For if he lacked complete familiarity with even the location's name, then likewise all the inhabits should not know his own hometown, his own family name.

What _used_ to be his family name.

"Son of a troll-fucked mo…"

No, he wasn't cursing himself right now, either. Just cursing… cursing… the unnaturally immaculate _weather_. That was all.

Weather like that deserved a few well-targeted swear words.

He began taking devious pleasure noticing the imperfections of the landscape. That one snapped branch on the alder over there. The pine tree's browning needles, insects crawling over its trunk's rough bark. That too-skinny rabbit to his left darting away from him. The flowers he intentionally trampled just to show he still had some control in the world.

Even the egg white clouds were stupid, malformed beasts, if he put his mind to it.

And he did. For pointing out nature's shortcomings made him feel better about himself and all his imperfections. Those imperfections which had landed him here in a beautiful, peaceful, sunny, impossibly green, but nevertheless completely and utterly _intolerable_ Hel.

But…

How else could flowers grow unless someone watered them?

He threw his back up against the tree and began to sob. And the next curses that escaped his lips were all directed at himself.


	2. Chapter 2: An Affront of Honor

King Sturgeon Halibut Haddock of the Wilderwest, Revered Hero of Memo, Defender of the Western Shores, O Hear His Mighty Name and Tremble, UGH UGH lounged upon an impressive throne. He himself was an impressive, muscle-cut figure, even if the monarch smelled like a rotting combination of all three of his namesakes combined. Sturgeon's intimidating glare was even more imposing and striking than his smell, though – at least at this current time. He scowled at a small and stick-like seven-year-old boy who stared, somewhat abashed, down at his feet. A spark of defiance glimmered out from behind the child's outward penitence, though. Fire leaked out from his blue-green eyes, just as blood leaked out from both of the nostrils of his banged-up nose.

"Gareth," the king heavily intoned, "what do you have to say for yourself?"

The mop-haired boy shuffled his feet as though uncomfortable and ashamed, but squeezed a stubborn clenched fist on either side of his body. Apparently he wanted to believe he had _no_ good reason to stand before the king. He thus said nothing, simply glaring down at the ground, occasionally wiping the blood from his dripping nose onto his sleeve.

"Well?" the king demanded softly. Still no response. "Gareth, answer me."

The boy licked a split lip – causing its red crusted scab to reopen – and responded hoarsely at last, "He started it."

"Oh? _He_ started it, did he?"

"Yeah." The boy craned his neck up to the king's proud boots, then enormous bulging knees, then armor-plated waistline, then finally his broad, glaring face. Despite Sturgeon's readable, radiating displeasure, the boy did not cringe away. Instead, stiffening his neck, he elaborated, "Rockguts poked me."

"Uh-huh. And that's how you got your bloody nose, is it?"

"_No. _That was when he punched me in the _face_," the boy responded indignantly, impatiently, as though the monarch ought to have _known_ that already, no mind he had not been present during the squabble.

Wearied, rubbing his brow irately with a sword-calloused hand to ward off an approaching headache, Sturgeon asked, "And _why_ did he punch you, Gareth?"

"Because I hit him in the stomach!" Gareth leaped up and swung his left arm excitedly to demonstrate exactly how he socked his foe. It was pretty impressive for his pencil-wide arms.

"So let me get this clear. You _punched_ Rockguts Wodinsson after he poked you."

"Yup. Toldja he started it."

The king raised his eyebrows. "Son, a simple poke is no reason to start a fight."

"But I said _he_ started it. Not me. He touched me first!" That half-hidden fiery defiance in his eyes now bust into brilliant flame. The tiny boy could have started a forest fire had he been standing out of doors. "I was tryin' to show him he shouldn't mess with me!" And the boy with the bloodied lip cracked open a lop-sided grin on the left side of his face, smacking his fist into his other palm, then trying to puff up and brag off his non-existent biceps.

Sturgeon shook his head. "There are many good reasons to defend yourself. That is _not_ one of them. Gareth, this is your third fight this month."

"Yeah." The boy seemed stoked rather than chagrined. "And I've won all of 'em, too!"

"I wouldn't call that winning. Winning a fight would have been never to start it."

The boy deflated – only slightly – but at least he was no longer flexing his arms.

"You're picking fights with all the boys – and the girls – and the _sheep_ in the village – for nothing more than poor excuses. 'He poked me'?" Sturgeon scoffed with a short, crisp bark. "You are the son of a king! You should be able to hold your temper against something so measly as a poke."

"Rockguts wasn't bein' nice to me," the boy muttered. "He should be nicer to a _prince_."

"And _you_ weren't acting in the proper conduct for a prince," Sturgeon reprimanded.

"I was just trying to –"

"Silence!" King Sturgeon Halibut Haddock snapped. The entire room echoed. "I have told you time and time again _not_ to lose your temper over such petty instances! How can I get that into your head? Until you can start _acting_ like a prince, I'm not going to _treat_ you like one! Go to your room, Gareth."

"But –"

"NOW!" The king's shouts rocked the Great Hall as he threw his arm forward to point in the direction of his son's private chambers.

Moping, Gareth Ragnar Haddock the Second obeyed his father's command. But behind his blue-green eyes and scuffed-up mid-brown hair, his defiant fire remained.

* * *

"Gareth," the king said when his wide-eyed eleven-year-old son approached the Wilderwest throne. "Why were you trying to run away?"

"I wasn't running away," the boy protested, pouting.

"You sabotaged one of the large ships in the harbor, cut it from the anchors, and started sailing out to unprotected seas. You tell me what else that is supposed to be."

"Oh Dad, I was just going on an adventure!" He pointed to the short sword strapped to his side, gesturing to the proof. "I was going to go off and be a big Hero like you by fighting off all the pirates and the sea monsters and the vicious dragons and…"

"Hold on there!" the king exclaimed, throwing up his hand to shush his son's commencing monologue. "There's more to being a Hero than fighting! And you don't have go out… _adventuring_ for it!"

"But how else will be I be an honorable fighter like you?" the boy said.

"Well," the king said, puffing out his mustache, "you could start with staying at home, not stealing any ships, and trying not to fight the other children your age."

* * *

A lanky fourteen-year-old boy slumped before the king's grand throne. He was just entering a growth-spurt which stretched his limbs and torso like taffy without adding any weight. The result was he looked like a broom. The fluffy, unkempt hair bursting out of his forehead was the only substance on his person; the rest of him was nothing more than a tallish, thin pole.

"Ye-e-e-e-e-e-es, Dad?" he drawled agitatedly, glaring upward to Sturgeon with hi arms insolently crossed. "Heard you wanted to talk to me?"

"I'm sure you know _exactly_ why, too," Sturgeon remarked.

"Yeah?" Gareth shrugged casually, hardly caring. "Look, it's not that big a deal…"

"Seabeard almost lost his _head_ from _your axe_. That IS, in fact, a 'big deal'."

"Relax, Dad. He didn't actually lose his head."

Sturgeon might have heard the kid mutter afterward, "Though he should have," but the king was more than infuriated enough from his son's earlier statement. "I am more concerned about the fact my son _actively tried to remove his head _–"

"Seabeard was –"

"That would have been _murder_, Gareth!"

"But it _wasn't_."

"That was your intent. You can't ever avoid that fact. You could still be imprisoned for this!"

"Don't you want to hear my side of the story, Dad? You're making me out to be some bad guy without understanding at all what I was doing or feeling. Don't you think that maybe Seabeard was antagonizing me and he –"

"Gareth! It doesn't matter! Whatever he said, whatever he did, you took it too far. Son, you still should be imprisoned for this."

"Oh great, instead of getting locked in my room, I'm locked in a cell," the boy hissed sarcastically with a pointed eyeroll. "How absolutely horrendous."

"You take too much advantage of your royal status and retaliate against people who offend you," King Sturgeon warned his son. "Don't think you're so protected just because you were born a prince. You can lose that title, too, you know."

"Oh, you wouldn't even _think_ of doing something like that," Gareth scoffed irreverently. "I'm your only son. You have no other heir."

With a heavy sigh, King Sturgeon remarked, "Son, that was not meant to be a threat. But you have to know that if you don't curb your hot-headedness soon, you will run into dangerous consequences from which your status – or anything at all – cannot protect you."

* * *

Angry shouts aimed at a fifteen-year-old menace whose honor was affronted. "You need to control your temper!"

"Well so do you!"

Storm out the door and slam it shut.

* * *

Sixteen-year-old, muscles forming on a lanky, growing body. Exasperated prince. "What is it _now_, Dad?"

* * *

Seventeen-year-old turning away, screaming angrily at his father, "See what I care!"

* * *

Eighteen-year-old, six-foot-one and elegantly lean, protesting, "But Father –"

* * *

A tall soldier garbed in light but well-crafted armor now stood before the King of the Wilderwest's throne. This young visitor, on the cusp of adulthood, just a few months short nineteen, held a rounded horned helmet deferently beneath his left arm.

"I am here to give my report, Father," he announced with a dip of his head. Though his hair was still its characteristic chocolate brown, thick and fluffy, he wore it trimmed a bit shorter than he had as a child, the hair tickling at the top of his ear on the side, a jagged cut across the eyebrows to the front.

A rapidly graying king leaned forward, inquiring, "You come yourself, Gareth, rather than send a messenger?"

"Yes," the young man responded. "I did decide to come myself. It's been a long time since I've been home in the capital, and this is a special report which I felt I should relay to you myself."

"A special report? From the quiet northern border?" Sturgeon inquired, puzzled.

"Quiet no more, Dad. We've capture twenty men and women, killed six, wounded ten."

The king's hand dropped from his chin and smacked against the armrest to his throne. For a long while he sat there, staring, mouth agape at Gareth, before he finally demanded, "What happened? Were our soldiers attacked?"

"We might as well have been," Gareth evaded. His eyes shifted off to the side to briefly study a tapestry. Even though it depicted a gory hunting scene, its visage depicted a far more welcoming and friendly face than his father's solemn stare.

"So you weren't."

"Well. I mean. Yes and no.

"In full, there was a group of merchants from the north passing our border who were acting suspiciously," the young man explicated with a mostly even expression, though perhaps overly stiff and formal. "We asked to search their cargo to ascertain that they would be no threat to our kingdom once they entered. But they balked, even opposing my direct order! We had to use force to search their belongings."

"And you found something that would threaten us?" Sturgeon inquired.

"Well, no. Nothing but fruits and grains."

"Then why the bloodshed?"

Emotion broke through the young man in full now, and with a snarl he answered, "Because the leader of the wagon train was positively infuriating!" He gesticulated wildly with both his arms, tirading. "Her defiance against us is a threat enough to the Wilderwest! The way in which she mouthed off and even _threatened_ me –"

"Was it really a threat, or just an insult?"

"Either way! The merchants just proved they were a hazard to the kingdom!"

"And now their chief will learn of this attack," the King of the Wilderwest moaned.

"Undoubtedly," Gareth responded with a serious nod to his head. "We let two of their men escape just for that reason, so that everyone knows not to balk with the Prince of the Wilderwest."

"Don't you understand?" Sturgeon shouted furiously. He stood up and marched to Gareth's face. It was one of the only times in all the young man's nineteen years that his father marched off his throne to speak to him. And now it was to glare at him, uncomfortably close, leaning down and breathing his pungent fish breath directly down Gareth's nose. "This could start a war. For no good reason, you enacted violence, and we could be in battle in a fortnight."

"Then let that battle come, Father," Gareth retaliated. He threw his arm out exasperatedly in front of the King of the Wilderwest and almost whacked him on the nose. "You're berating me as though I've done something wrong. But I've protected our borders, I've trained men in the military, I've prevented thieves and rogues and criminals from entering our lands. I single-handedly stopped a band of murderous outlaws from entering our country. I've fought in skirmishes with minimal casualties to our side. I have been bringing you _honor_ as the Captain of the Guard. I'm overseeing security, of which you explicitly placed me in charge, and _everyone – needs – to – be – checked_ before they enter the kingdom. It's protocol. It's for our protection. And you're acting as though keeping our country safe is a travesty?"

"I won't deny that you have made me proud with many of your actions in the north," Sturgeon responded. He placed a hand firmly on his son's shoulder, giving him a firm but hearty pat. "Your passion to protect the country is admirable. You shall defend it to the very end. But while your pride can be a strength, it is also your greatest weakness. Raising you," the king stifled an exasperated groan, "has made it more than clear you have a strong sense of self-respect. To the point you _attack others_ to protect your honor."

"This was for the good of the country, not for –"

"The country is an extension of yourself. You are a Prince of the Wilderwest. An affront on the honor of your home country is the same as an affront to your own person."

"Father, you're missing the point," Gareth protested. "This isn't about my – my _pride_ –" he spat that word out with a bit of disdain, clearly dismissing his father's analysis of the situation "– but about the fact these merchants refused to obey my contingent of soldiers."

The king sighed, "That's your excuse for directly attacking a group of unarmed civilians –"

"– they had a few knives, rakes, and large dogs –"

"– because they insulted you –"

"– defied the authority of the Prince of the Wilderwest and Captain of the Guard!"

"– and that's worth the threat of _war_?"

"Yes!"

The room dropped into silence.

A long, long period of silence.

Uncomfortable. Silence.

Gareth shifted his feet, his conscience finally catching up to his mind.

"I hate to do this to you, son," King Sturgeon began wearily. He stared the young man straight in the eye. The king's blue eyes were weighty, baggier than the wrinkles of his old age usually showed. And he dropped his hand from his son's shoulder.

"Do what?" Gareth asked hesitantly. He regarded the fallen arm warily, then looked up inquisitively at his father's face.

And King Sturgeon Halibut Haddock of the Wilderwest answered.

"I'm relieving you from your duty."

Gareth felt his mouth run dry. "You're demoting my status in the military." He felt himself stepping slightly backward away from his father.

"No." Sturgeon grimaced. "You are no longer _in_ the military."

"_What?!"_

"I will relieve you of your sword right now," Sturgeon said.

Gareth touched the handle of the blade. Clutched it in his left fist. Tightened his hand. And snarled, "_No_."

He pulled out his sword, blade shining in the Great Hall, and proclaimed, "You cannot take this from me!"

"Guards!" called out the king.

Men rushed out, sharp steel in their own hands, and charged toward Gareth Haddock of the Wilderwest. And as they charged, one man started, clearly shocked to be rushing against the son of the king. And Gareth, noticing his opening, plunged his blade straight through the gap in that man's armor at the armpit, dug his sword in deep, and yanked it out with a vicious tug. His assailant collapsed to the floor in a pool of blood.

It was Rockguts.

And as Gareth struggled, swinging his sword around, over and over and over, hollering out defiant exclamations, suddenly he found himself pinned to the floor, his arms twisted in painful restraints, one man seated directly on top of him, and another pulling out the sword from his hand.


	3. Chapter 3: Serving Girl

He hated how the serving girl was staring at him. For she _was_. Completely staring. Ever since he opened his mouth to request a drink, she had been eyeing him up and down with those overcalculating green eyes, glancing sideways at him from across the other side of the room when she thought he was not looking.

_News flash, you prying peasant, I can _tell_ that you're staring at me._

With an angered twist of his jaw, he turned his attention back to his drink and guzzled down a rather large gulp. It stung the back of his throat as he swallowed. Even after he set the drink down, he continued to study the mug's contents religiously. It was better to stare into the drink, after all, than to scan the meager inn's equally meager common room. Haddock supposed it was a tidy place, and nicely kept for what it was worth, yet that still did not dissipate the important fact that this inn existed in the middle of nowhere. Probably half the village's residents were gathered in this tiny place, laughing merrily – yet even then, the place was hardly crowded. The innkeeper's two eldest daughters periodically circulated the room to attend to customers, but both of them spent much time laughing gaily with the others, not at all rushed to serve the people of this nameless town.

Well, maybe it was not nameless. Gareth had not asked. Yet it was small enough a place it might as well have been nameless.

_Get used to it, Haddock,_ he told himself, intentionally referring to himself by his last name. It gave him some stubborn comfort to call himself by his father's name – even if his titles had been taken from him, and he exiled out of the entire Wilderwest kingdom. _Get used to it all,_ he told himself again. _A nameless village is the sort of place you'll be living in your entire life. That's the only way your political enemies won't track down and kill you._

He could have thrown his mug across the table, just thinking on it.

"Drink doesn't taste _that_ bad, does it?" an adolescent voice asked.

The serving girl had brashly stepped right up to his table while he had been distracted with his thoughts. Haddock tried not to bite her head off as the girl spoke, standing there daintily, hands clasped behind her back and rounded, freckled face smiling behind a set of tight auburn curls.

She might have looked and acted innocent, but he _knew_ she had only pranced down to ask after his drink as a weak excuse to chatter.

Haddock tried to wave her off with his fist. "None of your business," he spat.

"Actually, I think it is," she primly answered him. She cocked her head to one side as she lectured him in a know-it-all teenaged voice, "As the innkeeper's daughter who's giving you your drinks, it's sort of the point of a maid to make sure you're satisfied."

"I can't be satisfied with you hovering over me, good _gods_."

Completely ignoring his rude remark, she continued, "And Pa extra wants to make extra, extra sure _you're_ happy." She leaned in, and spoke with a very eager voice. "It's not every day we have visitors come from out of town, much less out of the country."

"What? How did you –"

"Your voice, idiot. You've got a weird accent, like you're from the West or something."

"Quit prying into my life." Haddock intentionally raised his drink for a very long draught, hoping that would make it clear she ought to leave. However, when he surfaced from the mug, he saw that obnoxious girl still standing right there at the edge of his table, watching him without blinking. "I _said _quit prying. Get out of here."

"_Fine_ then. Goodness gracious, you're like royalty bossing me around."

Haddock tried not to react when she said the word "royalty." Balking, he muttered, "No, I just want some peace and quiet."

"So you can sit there being all angry and moody by yourself, huh?"

"I'm not… angry and _moody,"_ he protested, sounding _rather_ angry and moody indeed.

She gave a low curtsy that was also incredibly mocking. "Whatever you wish, Sire Resting Bitch Face."

"You mock me!"

"You really are like a bratty prince."

Then she paused, narrowing her eyes, as though Haddock had displayed some physical reaction she did not expect. Haddock buried himself in his mug to hide his eyes, but then began to choke loudly upon hearing her following words.

"…you actually _are_ a prince, aren't you?"

"Absurd," he croaked out, voice strained from the drink he had swallowed down the wrong pipe. He hacked for a few minutes. That stupid girl waited for him to quit coughing with this smug all-knowing grin on her face.

At this moment she slid into the chair opposite of him, throwing both of her elbows on the table and leaning forward. "That'd explain everything, wouldn't it?" she said, speaking to him in an excited low voice. It was like she was confiding secrets to him… except that these actual secrets she told were ones about _him._ "I heard from a traveling merchant who came by here a month ago that the Wilderwest king kicked out his only son. You're him, aren't you?"

Impossible.

_HOW IN THE BLOODY NINE WORLDS CAN THIS STUPID TEEN STRANGER GIRL FIGURE OUT EVERYTHING ABOUT ME IN THE COURSE OF THREE MINUTES?_

Apparently, Haddock's stormy, tight-lipped face seemed to answer her question. Her eyes widened in malicious delight and her lips curled into a feisty grin, consuming in this juicy secret with an uncanny amount of eagerness.

"Oh – my – deeeities," she said exuberantly as the truth hit her in full. That horrible grin broadened. "And you came _here_."

"Look, girl, I – I don't know what you're talking about." Haddock stood up, knocking his chair over in the process, and began to stomp toward the tavern's front door. She did not even move, but just sat there smirking. She was waiting for something to don upon Haddock, and eventually – regretfully – it did.

Night had fallen. This was the only inn in the village. Haddock had no choice but to stay in the common room… with _her._

Face heated, he returned to his chair and his near-finished drink. He ground his teeth together and made sure she heard it. This stupid girl was absolutely _insufferable._

Back stiff, elbows locked, he leaned over to her and hissed threateningly, "Not a word to people about ANY of this."

The girl crossed her arms over her chest. "You can't make me," she bragged.

Haddock briefly considered taking the nearest wooden chair and slamming it into her skull. Some stupid little girl who… who couldn't be more than fourteen… at the _most_… should not have been able to manipulate him like that. At ALL.

"How about we make a deal?" he growled through his teeth menacingly. His words alone were a sharp enough weapon to kill.

Gods, if only he could kill her.

Somehow she was completely unphased and even cocked a sassy eyebrow at him. "Ohhhh?" she inquired lightly.

"What would it take to keep your mouth shut?"

"You and me get to talk. You tell me all about the royal life."

"Not so loud!" he shouted… loudly enough to make everyone within that half of the room turn briefly toward him. Shaking in anger but curbing his voice, Haddock continued, "You're blackmailing me with information you know about me by asking for _more_ information from me? What stupid perverted vicious circle is that?"

"We don't have a deal?" She proceeded to raise her voice, shouting even louder than him. "HEY PA! THERE'S SOMETHING I NEED TO TELL YOU ABOUT THIS CUSTOMER! HE –"

Haddock threw himself toward her, yelping, "Fine fine fine oh my Freya!"

Triumph glowed through her hazel green eyes. As her father glanced over at the table, she finished her shout, "He wants a second pint!"

Haddock nearly collapsed onto the floor in relief. As it was, he certainly staggered backward, nearly crashing into the young girl's chair.

"You," he groaned, glaring at her with a murderous stare, shaking at her half from anger and half from the fear of nearly being discovered, "are nothing less than demonically despicable."

She brushed her skirts down flat as she stood up. "Oh, I'm no demon. I'm an angel."

"By the Allfather's precious eyepatch…"

"Actually, my name's Mera," she said. The young ex-prince sat there blinking for a while as she gave her introduction. "Mera Violet."

"Nice to… um… meet you." A total lie.

To say the least, when that girl's father came by with a second drink for Haddock, he took no time in gulping it down.


End file.
